It has been days and my fingertips are still numb

Paris Brest Paris 2019: my first successful 1200, though that involved a lot of luck and support; is done and dusted.

Feeling hasn't returned yet to either hand, numbness in my toes similar to the Geelong Flyer has appeared.
I'm not as worried as I should be, I've had this before and it fades after a few weeks... or was it months?
Nerve flossing exercises helped last time. 

Rewind: the departure

It's the day before I fly. It rained. I have recovered somewhat from the 300; but last night's group ride didn't have a group - I was late, trying to intercept a bunch that wasn't there.

My Wednesday ride I haven't gone to forever. I really meant to. I even planned a course; chickening out at the last moment when my alarm went off: the day before had been beautiful, today would be too?
It rained solidly. A tougher version of me would have ridden.
This version of me rolled like a crocodile in the quilts, over and over until willpower was suffocated.

I packed. I need to buy more tail lights. I have 6 headlights. What am I even doing.

The moment I finished work, I realised I'd been using it as a distraction.

I made keening sounds of stress as I packed. I knew I hadn't forgotten anything, but my insides felt like a cat in a piano: discordant, mangled, mewling in a melody of panic and anxiety; wanting to scratch anyone who comes near. The black dog of depression is far less worrisome than this primal creature.

I've never travelled this far overseas. I'm alone. What if they lose or break my bike? Buy another!

What if I break a spoke on the ride?
Find a bike shop in France that sells spares before the ride, and learn how to fix this.
What if I break a chain? 

I have three quicklinks. 

It is pure overkill.

Cut to: Airport

Adelaide to Sydney via Virgin.
Sydney to Abu Dhabi via Etihad. I queue, it's chaos, flights are delayed, I scan my boarding pass, it beeps red. The ticket counter staff check things, shrug and wave me on to the flight with no further detail.

There's a man in my seat.
He insists it is his seat.
On the count of three, we draw boarding passes... and it really is the same seat.
Seems like the virgin/Etihad systems don't talk.

I get to hang with the crew and groundstaff, already onboard the plane.
I'm polite.

Well, I'm still flying; this has been a lot of fun so far.
They double sold my seat. After 30 minutes of delay (I wasn't the only one affected), I get a new seat and a promise of a new boarding pass; but the plane takes off before that moment.

Oh well. Glad to get that singular issue dealt with, problem free from now, right? Better be proactive though and double check things.

I land, Abu Dhabi, I speak to the transfer desk, for my next flight, is this boarding pass still valid?
Earlier flight leaving pretty much right now? Good thing I checked!
Well, okay; I'm happy to take it. My checked baggage will be correctly unloaded and then loaded onto the new flight? Of course it will came the reply.

Cut to 4 hours later

After buying the in-flight WiFi have I discovered there is a Lost Baggage Incident Report; created while I was in the air.... they have indeed apparently put my bike on the wrong flight. The original flight.

How have I managed to descend both into Heathrow, and simultaneously, an episode of Fawlty Towers!

After much fuss, the bicycle arrives at 10pm. It has a distinct lean to it. Deraileur has been bent, the internal supports of the Aerocomfort bag forced apart from the bike, the front structure of the bag has taken a very strong blow, bending aluminium structures.

I haul it up three flights of stairs, nonplussed.

London was... well... London. Busy, traffic everywhere. Everything ever so slightly... bland and miserable.
We picked up a cycle tour which was fairly descent; with vintage cycles galore.

We saw a smattering of churches and history. We stayed in a cramped hotel with a lift only big enough for a single person and a disconcerting Thump every time it arrived at a floor. The idea of being stuck in it, in a surprising fit of heat and humidty was terrifying.

The tiny West Cromwell Hotel was a dead ringer for Fawlty Towers too.
The accommodation was stuffy, with a tiny fan: this is not a city ready to deal with a climate emergency.
We managed to get on a few city cycles, which were vastly underutilized but seemed useful.

While stuck on a crossing because of a bus pulling to a halt, a jaywalking Brit had a go at me for where I was on the road. Cyclists are second class citizens here too. I pointed at the red signal for the pedestrian crossing and asked if he had perhaps noticed it.

We heard the sorrowful lament of a black cabbie vs uber.

We ate visually spectacular breakfasts that were ever so slightly... horrible British.

Sandwiches were the height of street food culture. Warm, terrible beers labelled "Ale" that tasted of... West End crossbred with VB.
It was a relief to be out of there.

Barcelona was an immediate and distinct improvement. Heat and humidity were everywhere; but people adapted to the way of life with late night dining and decent brunch culture. The gothic quarter was great, the beer was actually cold and not revolting, and a local bike shop charged me... 6 EUR! To fix the hanger. The poor mechanic did a great job, but had tried to index it so the full range of gears were available, rather than advising me not to cross chain.

Typical gothic quarter street: pedestrians rule.

Another day, we do a bike tour, with eMTBs. It's tourist focused but goes through a park with 300 trails in it. A quiet chat, and the guide sends me up off a few green trails. 

Nikki also has a shot, and decides stubbornly after I put her seat down for a technical section, to put it right back up. A few rocks and roots, then boom! Crash! 20kg of mtb and girlfriend tumbling over. She gets straight back up, back on, gets a few more metres and... loose dry dirt takes out a wheel.

We all help her up, adjust the seat and I get a rare maybe you were right.

Damage: brusies, cuts and scrapes. She toughs out the rest of the ride, I get to throw iodine all over everything.

All too soon, we're on a plane to France. We pick up a Campervan from a older couple, Nikki's French serves us well. We get right down the driveway and almost immediately scrape the side lights off on a low bridge/high edge. Oops.

We get to Ramboulliet, I line up; it's a nightmare of chaos and disorganization. I had forgotten my 6 billion lights, and had to go all the way back to the end of the line after getting them: a 30 minute process took 2 hours.
It rained on all those waiting. I collect my things, only to find someone had already collected mine; broken the wrist band when they realised it was not theirs.
I get the support driver pack. It has no maps. Sigh.

Finally, free. My phone died, meeting back up with Nikki is a nightmare with the huge camper and tiny streets.

Nikki and I were ready to murder each other. We went to a nearby Intersport, and found out the French have no idea what Chamois cream is. A quick meal in a British themed pub and we left for a campsite.

We arrived at reception, to find another set of people waiting. It's locked. A few others drift up. A multi lingual discussion starts, with a friendly Frenchman translating for us: where is the person? It is open isn't it? How long will he be?

Finally, a door opens: Bon soir? asks the French equivalent of a Queenslander stereotype; surprised to be so popular.
In unison, we all chorus back BON SOIR! cheerfully; and laugh; this is better comedy than the Moulin Rogue show.

We get plugged in and settle in for the night. The reversing sensor is possessed by a mind of its own, screaming whenever the reverse gear is engaged in the camper.

Morning breaks, we pack up and turn over the engine to find... dead battery.
Turns out we chose the one charging point that didn't work; and the van had died.

After much stress, we borrow a longer cable and charge the van; walk to a nearby supermarket and get kicked out at 12pm on the dot as we panic buy supplies.
Rural France is not working well for us so far!

On return, the van starts; thankfully. The cold stab of fear lessens: I don't have to ride another 40-50km to the start.

To the start!

The ride begins: I roll up, it's chaos again. I reach J group just as they unleash them, so merge into the very front. We stamp cards and go.

Just a few of the starters...

It's 6:15pm. Sunset is in under three hours, and I have no idea what to expect. Little groups form and disband, but no one talks! I strike up a few conversations, but they wither and die quickly.

Some bold anti aero choices on display

I end up solo, and pass a German lady on a hill, saying something like: we're almost there, only 1150km to go! She laughs between ragged breathing; and I slow a little at the crest. We chat a little, she sits on my wheel, two others join us. We have actual teamwork!

The first night is long, the small stalls and supportive children and villagers die off. Climbs keep happening, I'm riding alone often, sometimes an entire swarms of group riders appears and cause carnage. I meet and chat with some Nova Scotians. I begin to fear the Japandoneurs: they don't stick to the correct lane position, and will constantly sit on your wheel without talking or sharing the work. This makes high speed downhill a riskier proposition than it should be. They aren't the only riders doing this; but due to their team kit, stand out.

French roads are extremely high quality for the most part, and there is very little wildlife - compared to Australia, you can just let go and gain a lot of speed. 

I finally meet a Japanese rider not in team kit who isn't afraid of descending at a reasonable clip. We banter a little, Hiro is good company; obviously an experienced rider, but all too soon we part ways.

The long dark stretches further. Hunger sets in. At 5am, a cafe/bakery. I choose to stop, as there are other riders.

Hot food is going. I see some Jam and ask for pain (bread). I am presented with a 1m long baguette. Uhhhh. 

I snap it in two over my leg, stuff butter and sugar into one half. Reluctant to leave opportunities behind, I tuck the other half down my vest/Jersey.

What follows is about 45 minutes of the driest crustiest bread being chewed on, like a dog with a bone.

Finally, dawn: one headlight falters, fizzles and flashes off. Well timed!

I push onwards, shedding layers. The day heats up. I'm solo, and no longer catching, passing people.

I must be about 370km in of 450km. Hyperventilation, panic attack. Going too hard. You failed PAP at this point. Can't hold wheels. Everyone is out for themselves. A lump in my throat and tightness in my chest; I can't keep pushing like this. I did train this time, but... enough? It seems unlikely.

I deep breathe and try to tune it out; there's a detachment from the physical reaction I am going through and the mental side; which I can for once, put in a box named '3am thoughts' and ignore.

It's been 18h of riding on about 24h awake, and I spy a picnic stop which seems grassy and shady. A ten minute nap will do, and I press the buttons on my phone to set the alarm, then instantly snap awake 9 minutes later disoriented - a passing tractor intruded in my thoughts.

Some of the fog and emotional rollercoaster has vanished. Apart from a 600 a few months ago, I have rarely done a powernap - once as a teenager, drifting off for 15 and feeling substantially better is my only other experience.

I marvel at the difference it has made as I get back on the bike, and start seeing people I had passed some time back, the 10 minute gap having been closed.

Another village, another road. It all looks the same. At random, Rob shoots me a message: don't let Matt W catch you!!

I near a control, and an official steps oddly while gesticulating to turn right. I brake, I wobble, and low speed fall off my bike into a barrier.

I pick myself up, having wanged my knee and my dignity. I try to park and message Rob back: what's the time gap? A competition has rarely failed to motivate me and if I have a small gap over the much stronger Matt...

It's about then Matt W says Hey Dan. That crash looked embarrassing.

We sign into the control together. I begin to suspect the gap between us is rather small.

Needs more ham

Eat, ride, head to Loudeac. Matt's sleep stop is Loudeac too so we hang together for a bit, but soon he drifts away on a climb.

We hung with a tough rapha kitted Brit, who chased me down and shot off after some Mild Chat.

Finally, Loudeac, around 3pm. That's way ahead of the 24-27h estimate I had, I do the control. My new Brit friend is just exiting as I roll in.

I see Mikhail; try to do the beer we had said we'd do. Accidentally buy 1664 sans alcohol. What a cruel joke.

This is his last Audax ride, and he's moved from Adelaide.

We choose different food options and I end up asleep on the grass for an hour, Nikki not having expected me for a while.

I wake up, spit out a stray grass blade, see Mikhail again and say goodbye. Not quite the farewell I'd hoped in retrospect.

Nikki has picked a campsite nearby, I head towards it, and find shade to lay down with my bike for a nap and wait.

People keep waking me up: you look like you've had a bike accident! Are you okay?

I have never wished good samaratins less goodwill.

Finally, the camper. Nikki has had 0 prep time, so it's disorganised. The 5h I had allotted at this control ticks by. I manage perhaps an hour of sleep in total, a kit change.

I'm angry; I went so hard for so little rest; and I am out of time to change that. Nikki and I fight.

Sunset is coming by the time I am riding again, the second night is a blur.

A secret control randomly appears, hot chocolate in a bowl is well worth the stop.

Carhaix is up, I get through it, eat, and marvel at the huge numbers of A, B group riders. Half eating, half sleeping on cardboard flooring.

I leave the control and descend down a reasonable hill, when suddenly crack!!!

A front wheel spoke has gone.

Shit.

I stop, wrap it, look at the warp in the wheel, undo the front brakes. I have an emergency spoke, but figure it is safer to turn back where there is a mechanic, 1-2km back.

I gingerly climb, enter the control again, and ask a vollie where I can go.

The mechanic looks at the Teflon spoke and gives up immediately, but luckily has the right size on hand.

I lay down and sleep on grass, he's amused, 15 minutes later it's trew'd correctly. 

I've now burnt about 45-60 minutes more than I wanted here, so cautiously set off for the descent again.

I climb through a forest, some Brazilians in a loose group near me, but not talking to me or including me. 

I get to the front, follow the arrows straight. A rider screams WRONG WAY!!!

I slow, consult: I followed an arrow. Did you see another? No answers.

It turns out they are dead wrong, but the seed of doubt has been planted.

I frequently drop the group, and then slow to check my course, to be caught and passed. My digital maps are so slow to update properly on my phone.

Time keeps burning.

Finally, away from the deep ravine section with chilly temps, a major highway and long climb.

I get about 15 minutes in, heading towards a radio tower barely visible in the distance. Brest is close, but its unclear how close.

I begin to lose it, and pull over into a shoulder for another nap on bare asphalt. At this time of night, it's cold and grass has dew on it, so raw road surface is the least bad choice.

I snap awake again before my alarm, 11 minutes or so rest this time. I begin climbing, and am surprised to hear a female German rider singing at the top of her lungs, headed in the other direction (easily 630km+):

What do you do with a drunnnnken sailor, what do you do with a drunkennnnnnn sailor, what do you do with a drunkennnn sailor earrrrly in the morrrrrrninggggggggggg

It's bizarre, infectious and entirely apt. I hoped the next rider along would be singing the next verse. I mouth it to myself, slowly climbing still. It must be 2-3am by this point.

A few RVs and coffee, food exist. I skip them. A fast pair catches and overtakes me; I try to grab a wheel. The road turns down; fog is common. A 15km? Or so descent happens: I am so cold, with only short gloves and insufficient layering. It goes on forever. Clumps of returning riders head in the other direction.

After an age and shivvering uncontrollably, a small coffee stand appears. I stop and desperately grab onto the warm container; not to drink but to leech the life from back into my senseless fingers.

I look at the sign: Brest; 47km. That's odd, I think - it should be 25km tops, according to my mental model - 600km.

The family crewing the coffee stop ask me to sign where I am from and my details, and I set off again.

A fork in the road and food stop; I go left, skipping it; losing all company. It's 5am, and now it's 27km to go.

The terrain flattens. I can't see the city lights I saw before. The sun slowly pokes over the horizon, and I find another rider: Boris.

We chat, his English is pretty great, far better than my German, and we pair up. Closer and closer we get, holding a good average, trading anecdotes about how we got into Audax and car culture.

Suddenly: a train crossing going off; with no train. We wait. We wait further. 15 minutes later, a flock of riders and cars are clumped together, and a train saunters past, empty.

Thanks, French rail.

Brest is close: 11km until the control, but we are in a suburban neighbourhood. Signs to Brest appear, saying it's to our right, confusingly back where we came from.

We break apart on some climbs, regular commuters mixed in with us, I nearly take a wrong turn, and we're still 5km out.

In contrast to numerous French villages wishing us Bon Route, Non Courage or Allez Allez Allez!, Brest does not care one whit for what we are doing.

I see ads on bus stops for it, but apart from some elderly... no one cares.

We arrive over the magnificent bridge in Brest.

I would gladly have skipped it to shave 20km from the course.

Div and James have ridden through, no sleep 610km. I catch them after they have woken, chat, eat. This control is very dumb, the food and the checkpoint are distinctly apart and poorly signed.

I'm rolling again fairly promptly, and chat to a Brit. 610km, 6000m climbing done. Daylight. Things are looking good!

I shift, it sounds... crunchy? I shift again; and it happens: a cable I should have replaced snaps on me.

I swear very loudly. Flocks of birds leave trees in shock. The 15km descent weighs on my mind: I could grind this out in the big ring on a flat course. This could be the end of my ride.

Luckily, this is not my first mishap: I know you can put in a limit screw and get a mid range gear. I stop, blast out of social media to see if anyone knows a better hack, adjust things.

I ask other riders, who seem to have less knowledge than I do.

The limit screw got me perhaps three easier gears - 16t? - but it's hard going.

I slow, people passing, keep asking the question.

I stop to see if I can get better solutions: 90km uphill overall back to Carhaix. I don't want to turn back and try to find a bike shop, being over 7km out.

James and Div flash by, I yell Hey! HELP! etc.

They graciously stop, and while none of us knows a better hack than the limit screw, after watching a video online via Rob W about knotting the cable in a fixed position and Div considering the problem a bit, we use cable ties to apply the force the cable wouldn't.

This is a roaring success. I still only have two gears, and max out around 26kmh; but it makes climbing trivial.

I send James and Div on their way, having delayed them enough, and spin like mad at the crest of each hill to get a descent downhill speed up.

It's actually eye opening, how good a very easy gear is: I realise how much I stomp, how bad for my knees it is.

I keep overlapping with James and Div, being passed when I stop for a nature break and receiving enough heckling; then passing them 5 minutes later doing the same thing.

Finally... Carhaix, again. Into the mechanic, ask if he's sick of seeing me yet.

All of the stamps!

I go do the control, go meet Nikki, sleep for 45 minutes, finally pass my bike through the electronic reader. The parting words of the mechanic: ride to Paris! Don't break anything else.

Slowly, Loudeac nears closer again. 310km since I was last here and slept. When I woke, my throat raged like a stung bull. In Treve, an ambulance and rider in a space blanket. I miss my limited gearing choices, I've overdone it. My knees hurt, despite huge ibuprofen tablets (600mg!). My Brit Kit Watching Buddy, surprisingly, is with me here: our sleep schedules are different, but speed is similar.

I happily banter, trying not to anger my knees.

Loudeac. Again. 780-800km done.

Sleep this time is easier: Nikki has the routine. Control, food, ride to camper near control exit, just off course. Got into bed, she drove us through the winding village streets, I lay staring up at the ceiling giggling at the thought: real life herse simulator.

I slept for 130 minutes. Got up, rushed to the bathroom. Dear God, did I rush.

All too soon, riding again, into the night - 9pm wakeup. I'm overtaking riders again, still no teamwork, getting caught on climbs. I get slow at times, food is limiting me. Eventually, signs of civilisation: I press on.

Fatigue is not to be messed around with at this point. I run into two Seattle Randos, strike up a convo. To them, I'm Adelaide. I happy absorb the codename, and it's a visceral pleasure to ride with experienced folk.

We form a small posse, they cruising on their heavy but reliable beasts. A random Indian rider nearly goes down on a small 1 inch road feature they didnt notice; wheel skidding along it as a skateboarder does a shopping centre garden wall.

Boggling at how close to danger that was, the Seattlans gesture to move around quietly; and a few minutes later start performing admirable public service: calling the obstacles now coming with increasing frequency in the dawn and town centre.

Their advice sticks in my head: don't smash yourself now. Plenty of time to burn matches later.

We get to a control I have been to before but don't recognise, go upstairs, load up a plate, after queuing forever. There are no signs to indicate it, but this is cash only. Upstairs. In a cramped line.

Fffffffffffuuuuuu-

I go downstairs after handing back my food. There are no less than 4 eftpos terminals for 2 staff at the other area.

Typical French disorganization. I grab food, queue for the bathroom. I might be in the Bulge now. The Seattlans are off, I say goodbye/goodluck from the line.

Finally, moving again. 400km or less to go. Things space out.

I come across another rider, wheel off. I ask, as is usual; all good? Things were not all good. He'd cut a tire, and due to how spectacular European roads were, had never seen a patch kit for his 3 dead tubes; or the idea of a tire boot. That blew my mind: you need to have ridden multiple Audax seasons to even qualify, you'd think it would shake out these skills.

I gave him a spare kit, helped patch a tube, showed him how to detect puncture by listening or feeling with lower lip. Felt good to pay it forward from Div's rescue hacks.

Said goodbye, set off.

I meet Nikki, do night prep. She gives me a chemical warming pack, the sun sets. It's way too hot for it. I take it off on a long climb.

People are tired by night three, but I've had enough of people ignoring rules.

Another rider and I take delight in saying turn on your lights as dusk sets in. I'm carrying excessive weight to make sure I comply.

One rider is in my little bunch and ignores me. English. German. French. Pantomime. His tone is desultory and dismissive.

I seethe. I've done my best to conciously follow the rules - I accidentally rode with an extinguished tail light, an official yelled but when I asked a rider next to me if it were on, was assured yes. As soon as I saw, I stopped and fixed it.

I would normally have flashing lights. It's not allowed, so I have bought extra.

For someone to ignore the rules... rrr.

My anger abruptly vanished as we pass two motorcycle officials, who pull the rider over. 

Hah! I feel I hear excuses as I roll by.

I organise to meet near a control, it's dark; and a horrible climb supposedly.

Strangely, my knees and gearing don't care. I'm dropping the bunch at 8kmh on a 5% climb.

I meet Nikki, grab two slices of pizza sandwiched together, and roll on merrily.

At some point, maybe before, maybe after this; a Swede and I are alone. Arrows and GPS are disagreeing. We stop and consult, and press on. We are off course, but not materially. We get on well, I really enjoy riding together.

I run into some Americans. Probably my favourite bit - Ian with schremer's riding like a drunk giraffee, helmet tied to jersey, talking shit.

One of the others we were riding with had shifting problems; Ian's diagnosis: Ah, plastic bike. Ride it until it breaks?

A few hours later, we're on the longest, straightest road. Its fucking cold. I didnt go my extra layers. I stop and sit, only for the Gendarmes to arrive; turn on their flashing lights. I put my leg warmers on to a Showtime routine at 3am in the morning.

Utterly bizarre. Ian and the Americans had some accommodation well before the final controls - approx 200km out - and we parted. 

The countryside opens up from the forest, to farmland, and the mercury plunges.

150km has gone by. 80 remain. Italians and French jump out of rotation and form a peloton, leaving me. FFS. They vanish at 34kmh, I can hold 28-32. No one works with me, I just want this fucking done, and swap to pursuit mode. I've eaten 800g of chocolate; it works, I slowly start catching and picking off riders spat out of the bunch.

The final control nears, but so does fatigue. I'm way too wrecked to stop and sleep on the road: exposure will fuck me.

In Australia, two different Robs egg me on via Facebook. Average is 28kmh, unexpectly high, but the terrain is a 1% downhill forever.

By the time I hit the outskirts of the control, I have nearly caught the peloton: I can see the turns they make. My mental distress at chasing was extreme, but spotting and following arrows perks me up. Another rider and I make our way to the control. Nikki is here somewhere. It's 40km left overall. I am up 4 hours on the clock.

I eat more pizza, which I had stuffed into my jersey in a vacuum bag. I speak to an Aussie vollie, he urges me not to sleep long.

Exiting, I find the camper. Down for an hour. I get up, worse off. Nikki pits winter gloves on me, double zips my jerseys, PBP vest, neck warmer.

My GPS put me at 1199km. 40km remaining seems cruel.

I ride, the sun comes up. 2.5h-3h on the clock.

There is a climb, I am cooking immediately. Layers off. People keep passing me, I don't mind, finishing is very likely by this point.

I spy a rider sleeping. It's my Swede friend.

Slowly, carefully, I creep up and leave the Koala that has been on my bike the whole trip poised mysteriously.

As a Swede, he doesn't understand the risks of dropbears; perhaps this will help instil terror.

Wide open farmland, and I forget it's Ramboulliet; not Paris that is the end. A rider not doing this passes and yells Allez Allez Allez! I take off my helmet; and try to look presentable for the end photo.

Kit mashup: BUPA jersey, Spincycle Adelaide jersey. I know how to fashion.

The end distance arrives and... A vollie says oh just 5km more that way!

I kept being passed, rolled into Ramboulliet, did a lap of the cobbles and courtyard, saw James and Div (only 30min ahead), did last control.

A Frenchman tried to shake my hand and give me a medal. It wasnt edible so I discounted it as having negligible value. I was checked out; in a strange way big chunks of this had been 'easy' (whenever I had enough food), at other times gruelling.

At the end of it... oh, is it done?

I wanted to leave, saw and said hi to Pete from the GF1000; ate chicken where I put way too much mustard on; and sat there as Nikki looked after me and said: of course you are having a beer, you just fucking finished PBP.